The Highgrove Ritual

by

Owlcroft and Paula Douglas

A/N: The authors thank Dr. D.P. Lyle, M.D., author of Murder & Mayhem, for his generous and invaluable advice. Dr. Lyle is solely responsible for any medical accuracy in this story, and the authors are solely responsible for its absence. Now go buy his books.

Chapter One

Ioan McShane stopped beside a metre-high dry stack of pale stones. Barney trotted ahead, realized his master wasn't following, and paused as well. He looked back over his shoulder, whined, and wagged his tail as if to say, "Well? This doesn't look like the place, does it?" McShane frowned. The cairn marked the northern boundary of Oldgroves, the 300-acre estate of Colonel Anstrethy, Lord Highgrove, and while the little tower of stones was an informal reminder to trespassers, the Colonel had been known to take strong measures against any who ignored the message. Barney whined again, trotted ahead a few paces, then stopped and looked back. His meaning would have been clear to a man with far less knowledge of dogs than McShane.

The shepherd sighed. "All right, laddie. I know what yer tellin' me." Like many people who live alone, McShane had fallen into the habit of speaking to his dogs as though they were human. "But Lord Highgrove's in, and he don't care much for folks roamin' about on his land. Still," he added, starting after the dog again, "he don't much like sheep on his place, neither. Maybe if we take our little wanderer off his hands he'll reckon we're even, eh?"

Barney dashed ahead, pleased to have communicated his meaning at last, and led McShane another hundred metres deeper into Oldgroves. The dog skirted Smokham Wood and stopped at the edge of a rocky ravine, one of several that dotted the southeastern quadrant of the estate. Such ravines were ubiquitous on the downs, McShane knew. The largest underground river system in Britain flowed beneath the Mendip Hills, wearing away large areas of the underlying limestone and attracting cavers and even cave divers, because many of the subterranean recesses filled with water. The River Axe itself rose on Highgrove land less than a quarter mile from where McShane now stood, and was responsible for one of the region's most popular tourist attractions, the Wookey Hole Cave. Tourists often strayed onto the Colonel's land as they followed the river upstream, ignoring the posted 'no trespassing' signs and incurring his wrath. McShane was urgent to retrieve his sheep before the Colonel discovered him. He furthermore didn't fancy the idea of wandering about the hills after dark, and the early autumn sun hung just above the treetops. Although he knew the land as well as he knew his own house, McShane also knew that new chasms could appear unexpectedly as the water collapsed the underlying rock. Then, too, the Romans had mined lead in the hills, and by no means all of their excavations had been accounted for. Only a fool would blunder about the place in the dark.

At the bottom of the two meter deep ravine, baa-ing at irregular intervals and looking more bewildered than even a sheep had a right to do, stood a single lamb, unhurt by its tumble. McShane sighed, but there was nothing for it. He scrambled down the ravine wall with the gentlest slope, dislodging a small cascade of loose rocks and dirt as he did so. He caught up the lamb, hoisted it above his head, and boosted it over the rim of the crevice. The lamb landed in a soft heap on the turf. "Watch him, laddie," McShane said to Barney. "Watch him."

The oaks and elms of nearby Smokham Wood had sent their root systems questing far out through the soil and rock, and many lay exposed in the side of the ravine. McShane grasped one of these and used it to haul himself up, but when his feet slipped on the scree he fell face down, lost his grip on the root, and slid to the bottom of the ravine. It wasn't a hard fall, but it was a somewhat ignominious one, and he was glad that there was no one around to see it. He stood, dusted himself, swore perfunctorily, and stepped forward to try again. As he did so his foot made a hollow, scraping sound on the rock. He looked down and frowned. In falling he'd exposed a strangely flat rock slab, scuffing it clear of the overlying dirt and scree. Odd. He knelt and brushed away more of the dirt, but as far as he cleared it the rock remained unnaturally flat. Puzzled, and using two hands now, McShane scooped and dug until he had revealed a roughly eighteen inch-square slab of flat stone with two dull-grey lead straps running across it, embossed with some kind of curving symbols. He dug around the edges until he had exposed enough of the object to reveal that it was a limestone box. The lead straps appeared to circle the entire thing and reinforce what looked to be ornately cut iron hinges on one side.

In spite of his desire to betake himself and his sheep off Oldgroves before the Colonel discovered him, McShane paused to consider his find. The Colonel was widely known to be an avid student of Celtic history, and particularly of druidic practices. He maintained an extensive personal collection of relics and artifacts, both found and bought, valuable historically and monetarily, that would be the envy of many a museum. He often loaned his treasures to museums around the world. If the stone box proved to be as ancient as it looked, and if it contained relics or even human remains that dated to druidic times, the Colonel might be very inclined to reward the finder.

McShane had exposed only the top three inches or so of the box. He had no way to guess how deep the thing might be, but there was no question of his being able to carry it out of the ravine alone. He would have enough trouble getting himself out unencumbered. With renewed energy he clambered out of the pit, sent Barney home with the sheep, and started toward the distant manor house.

"That's almost got it, Reggie," Lord Highgrove called to the man waiting above the ravine. "Stand by to bring her up when I give the word, but slowly, eh? Very slowly." He turned to McShane, standing with him in the bottom of the ravine. Together they had carefully freed the stone box from the earth and wrestled it onto a mat of thick nylon strapping. Highgrove pulled the corners of the mat together and fished a beefy metal hook through the corner grommets, gave an experimental tug on the cable that ran from the netting up the side of the ravine and over its rim, and grunted with satisfaction. "I think that will do it," he said to McShane. He raised his voice to carry out of the crevice. "Okay, Reggie. Haul away slowly."

Topside, Reggie Larkin stood beside the liftgate of the Colonel's Rover and activated the electric winch. The cable retracted almost imperceptibly at first, and Larkin waited until the slack left the cable before calling, "How's that, sir?"

"Great, Reggie. It's holding perfectly. Maybe just a tad faster. There-that's it. Keep her at that," came Highgrove's answer. "I'll follow on, but don't go any faster that this."

Highgrove was a tall, broad-shouldered man, fit and well-muscled, and he followed the box up the side of the ravine with an unconscious, athletic ease, taking great care that the box didn't tip or get jostled. McShane waited until he was well clear of the rim, then made his own way up, much more awkwardly, and found to his embarrassment that Highgrove was waiting at the rim to give him a hand up.

"Thank you, sir, thank you," McShane muttered, and although Highgrove's hands were every bit as dirty as his own he wiped his hands self-consciously on his jeans.

"Never," Highgrove said boisterously. "If anyone deserves thanks around here, it's you, Ioan. This is amazing, just amazing. Do you know what you've found? Look at those straps, the hinges. This is an Iron Age cist, a reliquary." He used a finger to lovingly trace the interlocking curlicues stamped on the lead straps. "These are triskeles," he said. "Very common motif among the Celts. It symbolizes the Threefold Sister Goddess: Fotla, Eiru, and Banba. This is an amazing, amazing find."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," McShane repeated. It seemed the safest answer. McShane, as usual, didn't follow much of what Highgrove said. The Colonel was so immersed in Celtic history and rituals that it often never occurred to him that his listeners might be somewhat less so.

"Reggie," Highgrove said to the man at the winch, "Pour us a spot of tea, will you? One for yourself, as well. And don't forget to add a little flavor to it, eh?" He smiled at McShane. "A find like this calls for a little celebration. You'll join me, of course?"

McShane hesitated, but Larkin had already produced three cups of tea from a thermos and was liberally lacing each with whisky from a flask. "Well, sir, I really should be getting back to the sheep, now that it's so near dark, but...Barney won't let them stray too far, and a little nip never hurt anyone, I suppose. I thank you for your hospitality, sir," he added, taking the little cup.

"Nonsense," Highgrove boomed, clapping him on the back. "I told you: It's you who deserves all the thanks. By the way: You haven't told anyone else about this little find, have you?"

"Oh, no sir," McShane said at once. "As soon as I got the lamb out of the ditch I sent Barney back to the flock with her and came straight over the woods to you. There's no one to tell, any gate," he added softly.

"Excellent, excellent," Highgrove said. "You know how it is around here with the bloody tourists. If word of this got out there'd be massing with shovels and pickaxes, trying to find their own relics. It's hard enough keeping them out when they're hunting for their damned 'Wookey Witch.'"

McShane wasn't too sure that his lordship should be mocking the Witch-he'd seen and heard enough strange things in the Hills to make him keep an open mind on that point-but it wasn't his place to correct the Colonel. To hide his nervousness he drained his cup of tea-and then wondered whether he could presume to set it on the Rover's liftgate. Reggie solved the dilemma for him.

"All finished, sir? Let me take that for you," he said smoothly, and bustled it off to the front seat of the car.

"Well, sir," McShane said to Highgrove. "I thank you for the dram. Barney will be wondering where I've got to all this time..."

"Of course, of course," Highgrove said. "How rude of me. But listen: before you go. Let me give you a little something to show my appreciation, eh?" He reached for his wallet.

McShane put up his hands. "No, sir, no. I couldn't possibly-"

"Of course you can, Ioan. Don't be ridiculous. None of that, now. Take this-" pressing two one hundred-pound notes into McShane's hand "-and spend it in good health. I insist," he added when McShane opened his mouth to protest again.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you." McShane backed away, gave a little bow and touched the brim of his hat, then turned and hurried off.

"Take care as you go, Ioan," Highgrove called after him. "You know what the Hills are like at night."

John paid the cab driver and joined Sherlock on the pavement outside their flat.

"Well, that could have gone better," he observed.

"I told Lestrade to keep the zookeeper under surveillance."

"You definitely did." John's phone rang then. "It's Mycroft," he said, looking at it.

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned. "Ignore it."

"Oh, no. He's finally started phoning instead of abducting me. I don't want him backsliding."

Sherlock quirked the corner of his mouth. "It is an improvement."

"Mycroft?" John said.

"John," Mycroft said smoothly. "So good of you to take my call after Sherlock told you to ignore it."

John rolled his eyes but kept his voice polite. "What do you need?"

"It has come to my attention that one of Her Majesty's highly-decorated war heroes has been trying, without success, to get in touch with Sherlock," Mycroft said. "He has a little, ah, puzzle, you see, and he feels that my brother may be of some help in unravelling it. He's sent a number of e-mails, but Sherlock hasn't bothered to respond."

"Yeah, well, he does that," John said. "You're calling me instead of him because...?"

"Because this person is Colonel Cedric Anstrethy, Lord Highgrove."

"Uh-huh. Wait. Colonel Anstrethy? Colonel 'Bunny' Anstrethy?" Beside him Sherlock, who had been openly eavesdropping, pricked up his ears at something down the block. John followed his gaze and recognized one of Sherlock's homeless network lounging several doors away. "Yeah, go," he said in an aside, waving him off, and Sherlock strode away.

"Am I keeping you from something?" Mycroft asked.

"Uh...no," John said, speaking somewhat at random. He'd slipped automatically into his habit of methodically scanning the rest of the street, including the windows and rooftops, a precaution he'd learned in the war and which he'd found invaluable in his association with Sherlock. He was only half-listening to Mycroft. "Sorry," he said. "Go on: Bunny Anstrethy wants Sherlock's help?"

"Apparently. Do you know him?"

"Just by reputation. Not personally. But he was a very popular officer. Well-respected and everything. Very popular with his men."

"How nice. I've been told something similar. I've never met the man; never wanted to-but that's just between us, John. He appears to be held in high esteem in certain circles."

"I imagine so. What does he want to see Sherlock about?"

"It seems that the Colonel has found some sort of Celtic relic on his property. He lives in Somerset, near Wookey Hole Cave, and I'm given to understand that such finds are, if not exactly common, then at least not unheard of. The Colonel is famous in archaeological circles as a highly accomplished amateur. He's a prominent patron of the British Museum, and many of his collections are on loan to museums around the world."

"I'd heard that about him. He studies Celtic history? The history of the British Isles, something like that?"

"Something like that. He's considered a leading expert, though he's entirely self-taught. This find has potentially profound historical value, my source assures me, but the Colonel-'Bunny,' as you say-appears anxious to keep it out of the press for now. He wants someone discreet to help him examine this item, and for some reason he thought of my brother." Mycroft paused for irony. "I believe he's the first person who's ever accused Sherlock of being discreet."

"And this item is...?"

"A secret."

"Mycroft," John said, and thought, Christ, now I'm scolding him, too.

"My source was disappointingly vague on that point."

"Great. Well, I'd love to meet him. Don't see why Sherlock would, though. Doesn't sound like there's any mystery involved." He watched Sherlock turn away from the homeless woman and amble back toward him with a discontented expression. "What makes you think that he'll listen to me, anyway?"

"History, John. He does, you know. He will."

John laughed. "If you're so sure-"

"The Colonel is taking the first train up from Bath in the morning. It arrives at 10:15. Make sure my brother is in when Highgrove gets there, John."

"Mycroft. Mycroft-" John looked at the phone. "Dammit."

"Problem?"

John sighed. "Yeah. No. I don't know."

"Indecision is a terrible vice, John," Sherlock said, unlocking the front door.

"Yeah, well, so is presumption. Your brother-"

"Mycroft wants you to convince me to see a client."

"Right."

"A Colonel Anstrethy."

"Yeah."

"He keeps e-mailing me," Sherlock said, hanging up his coat and scarf as they reached their landing.

"Mycroft said. Why haven't you answered? You could at least turn him down."

Sherlock dropped negligently into his armchair. "Why bother? If it's important enough he'll get a little more creative. If it's not he'll go away. And oh, look: Mycroft's gone to all the trouble of phoning you, so...?"

"So Mycroft's, what, vetting your appointment calendar now?"

Sherlock smiled. "Not that he's aware."

John slipped off his shoes and settled into his own chair with a sigh. "Do I have to talk you into seeing this guy, then?"

"Do you want to?"

"God, no."

"You do want me to meet with him, though. Why?"

John shrugged. "I knew him in the service. Well," he corrected himself, in answer to Sherlock's glance, "I knew of him. He was popular with his men. Very well-respected. It's hard to fake a reputation for very long in a combat zone, you know. I knew a couple of guys who served under him, and they all said the same things: tough, fair, wouldn't ask you to do something he wouldn't be willing to do. Not a desk jockey type. A hard-charger. That sort of thing."

"There must have been a lot of commanding officers who fit that description. Why do you remember Highgrove in particular?"

"I guess he kind of stuck out because I heard that he was a big British history buff. It always struck me as a little...I don't know..." John gestured vaguely as he searched for the right word.

"Incongruous?"

"Yeah. That he'd be such a high-profile military figure and also a big expert on druids or something. The guys always said, 'Don't get him started.' But you know, I like reading about history a bit myself, so maybe that made him more memorable to me than he would have been otherwise. I guess I wouldn't mind meeting him."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "One more question."

"Yeah?"

"'Bunny'?"

John laughed. "Ah, that's one of those famous military nicknames. There's a story behind it-well, there's one that I heard. I'm not sure if it's true or not." He looked at Sherlock. "You don't really want to hear that."

"Please."

"Well, this is just what I was told. I'm not saying it's true." He hesitated, but Sherlock was looking attentively at him with no sign of irony or impatience, so he said, "The Colonel was shopping for a Christmas present for his aunt Lobelia. She was famous for being a very enthusiastic baker, I guess, and he wanted something that would be really useful to her. So he looked through some catalogues and ordered something he thought she might really appreciate. She wrote back a long letter thanking him for the lovely bunwarmer." John paused again. "You see where this is going, right?"

"I believe so."

"Yeah. So word got out to the troops through the Colonel's secretary, who I think is now second assistant dogcatcher in the Faroes or something."

"Soldiers called him 'Bunny' to his face?"

"Oh, God, no. No, never. But it was never malicious, either. Well, unless he had them doing something especially unpleasant, I suppose. But no. It was kind of an affectionate nickname, or at least respectful, but not one that anyone would ever say to his face."

"Hm. And Lionheart?"

"Never mind."

"Worth a try."

"Not really. So: You'll hear what he has to say?"

"Possibly."

"Sherlock. Look. How about this: There's nothing on right now. If your little homeless friend outside had turned up anything on that Sussex stuff you wouldn't be sitting here interviewing me about theoretical clients."

"True," Sherlock admitted ruefully.

"All this guy wants is for you to look at something he dug up. Some sort of relic. This is the first break we've had in weeks and a nice, easy case turns up. You've been running yourself into the ground lately, and you know it. Look at you: you must have lost half a stone in the last two months."

Sherlock looked away sulkily.

"Trust me, I'm a doctor: Even someone your age can kill himself with stress and bad habits."

Sherlock scoffed. "That's ridiculous. Statistically I'm far more likely to die in an accident."

"Oh, I'll make it look like one."

In many ways Lord Highgrove was exactly what John had expected from his reputation: tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, with the short-cropped hair-blond, in this case-of an active-duty military man, still trim and fit in his mid-fifties and with the upright, formal bearing of an officer. His handshake was firm and confident, his brown eyes alert and intelligent. His well-tailored clothes were casual but clean and neat: dark denim, a crisp white button-down shirt open at the throat, olive green cotton twill shooting jacket, and oxfords that could have passed the inspection of the most particular drill sergeant.

After the usual handshakes and greetings and with coffee offered and declined, Highgrove settled into the client chair. John focused rather less attention on him than he would otherwise have done with a client, because he'd realized at once that Sherlock was going to make the interview a trial. Although he initially appeared more or less civil, everything in his manner telegraphed to John a distinct inclination to be contrary and inimical, and John wanted very much to head him off if at all possible.

"Well, gentlemen," Highgrove began, "before we get to business I want to say what a very real honor it is to meet you, Captain Watson."

John blinked. "Sorry. Me?"

"I've met a lot of brave men and women in my career, as you can imagine," Highgrove said, "but I've rarely heard of an example of courage so far above and beyond the call as Captain Watson, here-" glancing at Sherlock "-showed in the Delaram action."

John shook his head adamantly. "No. It wasn't above and-"

"Modesty noted, Captain," Highgrove said, holding up his hand. "But they don't hand out the CGC like third prize ribbons at a country fair. I know what I'm talking about, and I'm telling you both that I've known some special forces troops who might have equalled what you did that day, but I don't know any who could have surpassed it."

"I got shot that day," John said tersely. "Plenty of people did the same."

Highgrove ignored the demurral and looked at Sherlock. "Has Captain Watson ever told you about his actions at Delaram?" he asked.

"Not interested," Sherlock said coldly.

"Would it surprise you to know," Highgrove went on, not really registering the reply, "that he saved the lives of four badly wounded troops in the middle of what turned out to be the second biggest firefight in Afghanistan that year?"

"No," Sherlock said. "But it would delight me if you would get to the point of your visit. Please state the nature of your case."

Highgrove had not been addressed in that tone by anyone under the rank of brigadier for decades. His chin went up with a peremptory jerk and he glared at Sherlock-but Sherlock, too, had the air of a man with the habit of command; moreover, he was on his home turf and he'd never been oppressed by rank or title. He returned the Colonel's gaze unflinchingly. John's expression of polite neutrality offered Highgrove no support, and the Colonel realized that he had hit the wrong note entirely.

"Of course," he said, looking down. "My apologies. Straight to business, then." He coughed, then began. "My place, Oldgroves, is near the southern boundary of the Mendip Hills," he said. "It's not half a mile by the main road to Wookey Hole and the Wookey Hole Cave-or caves, to be more accurate. Wookey Hole is the most famous cave in the area, but there are hundreds. It's an odd-sounding name, 'Wookey Hole,' isn't it?" he added-rhetorically, as it turned out, because neither of his hearers replied. "Do you know its etymology?"

Sherlock sighed and looked away.

"No, sir," John said politely, with a worried glance at his friend.

"It comes from the Celtic and Anglo-Saxon languages. 'Wookey' is derived from the original Celtic word for 'cave,' and 'hole' from the old Anglo-Saxon word for 'cave.'"

Sherlock swung his gaze back to Highgrove. "So 'Wookey Hole Cave' means 'cave cave cave'?"

"Sherlock."

Highgrove laughed. "Very good, Mr. Holmes. Yes, I suppose it does. Well, whatever it's called it's very popular with the tourists; almost impossible to keep them from wandering onto Oldgroves. Full-time occupation chasing them off." He paused and smiled, but John was still watching him with his features composed in an expression of civil attentiveness, offering neither encouragement nor discouragement, while Sherlock just stared at him with his oddly pale eyes, unnerving Highgrove and reminding him very much of a leopard contemplating a meal. He coughed nervously again. "Yes. Well, four days ago my neighbor to the north, Ioan McShane, a sheep farmer, had one of his flock stray onto Oldgroves and fall into a ravine. Ravines and crevices are common in the Hills and there are several on the estate. He retrieved his sheep, but in doing so he discovered a cist."

John frowned. "Cyst?"

"Cist," Highgrove said. "C-i-s-t. A stone ossuary or reliquary."

"Oh. A sort of coffin, then?"

"Very often, yes. Cists are small stone boxes, usually about forty-five centimetres square. This one dates from the Iron Age, a time when the Celts cremated their dead, although this one doesn't appear to contain any human remains. Usually they filled these cists with the ashes or shards of bone and items the dead might need in what they called the Otherworld: combs, tweezers, cups, personal ornaments. We can tell a lot about the social status of the individual based on the items interred in the box."

"Yes? And?" Sherlock said impatiently, and John glanced worriedly at him again.

"McShane told me about the box," Highgrove said, "knowing my interest in regional antiquities, and helped me bring it up out of the ravine. It's quite an amazing find, Mr. Holmes. One of the most significant archeological discoveries in southern England in the last thirty years."

"And yet you want to keep it a secret and you come to me," Sherlock said. "Why?"

"Publicity. It's because of its historical value that I'd like to lie low for a while. If word of this gets out prematurely there will be no stopping the archaeological community from breaking down my doors. The items in the cist are incredibly valuable both historically and monetarily." Highgrove paused. "Have you heard the old saying about the sunset being 'red as druids' gold'?"

"Sadly, no," Sherlock said.

"It's quite true," Highgrove said. "The gold smelted in Iron Age Britain was often tinged with red. Do you know why?"

"The crude manufacturing techniques available at the time introduced copper and other impurities into the smelting process. They were in fact producing a gold and copper alloy."

Highgrove looked surprised. "Exactly. Exactly. Very impressive, Mr. Holmes. Not one person in a thousand knows that little fact."

"I'm not one person in a thousand," Sherlock snapped.

"No," Highgrove agreed. "No, of course not. Well, to the point, then. The collection of relics we found in the cist are made of that very sort of red gold. The Celts valued gold above all other metals and it was vital to their most important rituals and sacrifices. Druids, of course, presided over those rituals and used knives made of red gold to make their sacrifices to the gods. Are either of you familiar with Russell's translation of Geber?"

"No, sir," John said.

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned, and slumped rudely in the chair.

"It's quite compelling; it captures the idea perfectly," Highgrove said, and recited. "'Gold is of all metals the most precious, and it is the tincture of redness...Spirits are commixed with it, and by it fixed, but not without very great ingenuity.'"

"Fascinating," Sherlock said sarcastically. "Will you be approaching your point any time soon, Colonel, or shall I send out for lunch?"

"Sherlock," John warned again. Highgrove had not impressed John favorably by dredging up Delaram, but he respected the Colonel's reputation and office. He knew that the longer Highgrove took to get to his point the greater was the likelihood that Sherlock's imperfectly-anchored manners would come completely adrift. Sherlock had agreed to see Highgrove to accommodate John, but opposing that were his constitutional impatience, his obvious dislike of the man, and the fact that this meeting somehow obscurely obliged Mycroft. John very much wished that Highgrove would get on with it.

"I'm sorry," Highgrove said. "I forget that not everyone shares my enthusiasm. Besides the druidic gold relics in the cist, we found a map."

"'We'?" Sherlock said.

"My secretary and I. Reginald Larkin. Reggie's been with us since he was a boy; in fact his whole family has been with us for generations. He shares my fascination with druidic history and he was as excited as I when we realized the value of this find. Caves were sacred to the Druids. They believed that they were part of the afterlife, what they called the Otherworld. I can't prove it without a translation, but I believe that the map provides directions to another entrance to the Wookey Hole Caves, and I believe that it lies on Oldgroves. If that's the case you can see why we'd prefer not to make the find public as yet. As I said, it's difficult enough to keep the tourists away now. If word got out that there's a north entrance to the caves, hidden for a thousand years but now discovered, it would be chaos. Caving is incredibly popular in Somerset, and the chance to explore one previously unknown to modern science would be irresistible."

"And you want our help to do...what?" John asked.

"Decipher the map," Highgrove said. "I know it must seem a bit mundane to a famous detective like yourself," he added, looking at Sherlock, "but I assure you that I can compensate you handsomely, and when I finally make this discovery public I can guarantee that you'll get one hundred percent of the credit in the popular press as well as in the scientific journals."

"Boring."

"I'm sorry?"

"Sherlock." John wondered if he was going to set a record for a consultation.

"I don't work on cases that will make me famous, Colonel. I don't work on cases that will make me rich. I work on cases that interest me, and if you don't say something interesting in the next-" glanced at his watch "-thirty seconds, I will have to say 'good day.'"

Highgrove glanced at John, who shrugged apologetically, then at Sherlock.

"Eighteen seconds," Sherlock said implacably.

Highgrove reached into the manila envelope he'd been carrying and withdrew a photograph inside a plastic sleeve. "This is the map we found inside the cist."

Sherlock took the photograph, glanced at it. "I'll take the case."

John said nothing. He was used to it by now.

Highgrove looked surprised but pleased. "You'll help, then? You'll try to decipher the map?"

"I will decipher the map," Sherlock said, examining the photo. "I'll also want to talk to the man who found the box. Your neighbor to the north."

Highgrove's expression fell. "I'm so sorry," he said gravely. "I should have said. Ioan...well, he was found dead three days ago."

"How very shocking."

This time John did glance at him. Highgrove had apparently not caught the note of sarcasm in his voice, but John heard it.

"Yes," Highgrove said, "it was. Shocking and sad. A neighboring farmer found him two days after he helped me excavate the cist, when he noticed that Ioan hadn't been past with his flock in all that time. The police believe it was a heart attack. He was known to have a bad heart, and I imagine the exertion of climbing in and out of that ravine with his sheep and then helping with the box-it's quite heavy-was just too much for him."

"Very probably. Well, I expect you'll be hearing from us shortly, Colonel. John will explain our fee when he sees you out. Good day."

Highgrove realized that he'd been dismissed.

John stood. "I'll see you to the door, Colonel," he said.

Highgrove looked at Sherlock, but Sherlock had steepled his hands in thought and his remote expression showed that he'd already forgotten Highgrove was in the room. Highgrove realized that there was no point in addressing him, but he was too polite not to say, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

John didn't even bother "Sherlocking" Sherlock. He just said, "Colonel?" in an apologetic tone, made an "after you" gesture, and followed him downstairs.

"I suppose I should be happy that you agreed to hear him out," John said when he returned. "Expecting you to be civil was too much to hope for."

Sherlock never glanced up from busily typing on his phone. "Why, did I embarrass you?"

"A bit, yeah."

"He embarrassed you a lot."

John wasn't in the mood to debate the merits of revenge incivility. He dropped it. "Why did you agree to take the case?"

Sherlock held out the photo. "You like to read all those histories of Britain. The Crusades, the Bronze Age, pre-history. Take a look at this Iron Age map and tell me what you think."

John hated it when Sherlock did that, but he was getting better at following and applying his methods, and at least in this case Sherlock didn't appear to be doing it out of spite because he'd been scolded, so John took the photo and tried to study it the way a mad genius would. The photo was somewhat over-exposed from the glare of the camera's flash, but he could make out the writing and drawings on it easily enough, if not much detail about the medium on which it was written. Two pale brown metallic objects, one of which was identifiably a knife, lay on the map but didn't obscure any of the writing.

"Well...the writing isn't in any language I can make out," he began cautiously. "But it looks like it's in the form of verse? Like a poem or a chant, maybe? A religious chant? Religious ceremonies were usually conducted in Latin until pretty recently, but this doesn't look like Latin." He glanced at Sherlock to see whether he was on the right track, but Sherlock gave him an exaggeratedly sorrowful shake of his head. John frowned at the map. "Not a religious chant...because...because there's the sketch. Directions to something, then. Highgrove thinks it's directions to a cave."

"Possibly."

"But this could be anywhere. It doesn't necessarily have to refer to something where the map was buried."

"No, but...?"

"But...then why bury it in that particular spot, if that spot wasn't near whatever this gives directions to?"

"If that map was in fact buried in the box then we have to assume that the location referred to is nearby. If it's not, and if the translated text doesn't otherwise give an exact location, then whatever the map leads to could be anywhere and therefore nowhere, for the purpose of finding it." Sherlock nodded at the photo. "What else?"

John puzzled over the photo a bit more. Sherlock wouldn't have asked if he hadn't already decided that there was something else, but John was running out of observations. "It looks like it's written on paper of some kind...but it's hard to tell from the photo. There's not a lot of detail. It could have been written on hide, I suppose."

"It's not hide."

The answer clicked into place. John looked up. "This isn't an Iron Age map."

"Excellent. Why not?"

"Because the Celts didn't use paper. They carved everything they wrote on rock." John was confused. "So...that's why you said 'if' it was buried with the box? I don't get it. Highgrove's supposed to be a big expert on ancient British history. Why would he think that this is a Celtic-era map?"

"He doesn't. That's why I took the case. He wants us to think it is, and I want to know why."

"Any ideas?"

Sherlock considered. "Maybe a working hypothesis. If an armchair historian like yourself can see that the map is more recent than the Iron Age, it's obvious why Highgrove wouldn't want experts looking at it. So the question is, how old is the map, really? There were no working paper mills in England until the late fifteenth century. That map could be as old as the late Middle Ages or as recent as the last one hundred years. The box itself might really be from the Iron Age and been used more recently to conceal the map, and when I say 'more recently' I mean 'last week.' So when was it placed in the box, and by whom, and how old is that paper? And why has Highgrove gone to all this trouble to involve us?"

"You think Highgrove planted the map in there?"

"Too early to say. We'll know more once we translate the text and get a look at the original map. Come on: we've got some research to do."

They made an additional copy of the photo so they could work separately. Sherlock sat at the kitchen table puzzling out the text of the map, alternately hand-writing notes on a legal pad and consulting his laptop. John worked at the living room table with his own computer. He found topographical maps of the Wookey Hole and Oldgroves areas and worked on matching them up with the rather sketchy features shown on the map.

The map in Highgrove's photo showed only a bit of waterway, a few stands of trees or woods, and what could be either rock subsidences or prominences: it was very hard to tell from the crude drawing. The lack of a scale on Highgrove's map made matching it to modern charts difficult, but John made some rough estimates based on the way trees and other features were depicted. He found three locations on a topographical chart and three corresponding satellite views for an area within a one mile radius of the estate that were plausible potential matches, but of those three it was impossible to tell which was an exact match for the map. He printed the six charts and the last one dropped into the paper tray just as Sherlock wrapped up his work deciphering the translation.

"Got it!" Sherlock announced.

John looked up. "You've translated it?"

"Look at this, John," Sherlock said, pleased with himself. He carried the map and his handwritten notes to the living room and laid them out on the table. "It's Latin with a simple three-letter shift."

"That's it? A three-letter shift?"

"Assuming that this is as old as the late Middle Ages, that's all they would have needed. The literacy rate wasn't all that high in the first place. What would be the chance that if someone unintended found it he could both read Latin and crack the cipher, assuming he even recognized it as a cipher?"

"Not good, I suppose. Let's see." John read aloud from Sherlock's notes.

"'Where was it hidden?

South of the door

Take you two dozen

Steps on the floor

Seek out the miller

At break of day

At sunrise the miller's sack

Will show you the way

At the sign of the goddess

Look low and then shove

Take heed of the guard

At the Druids' gold trove

How much will you give?

It demands a great toll

If you will have the red gold

You must give it your all.'"

He looked up. "Poetry. Nice. Any idea what it means?"

"Directions to buried treasure," Sherlock said, his eyes wide with exaggerated drama.

"Seriously?"

"'If you will have the red gold'? All that counting of steps? The big secret that Highgrove wants to keep from the press? It's obvious, isn't it?"

"You think Highgrove knows there's gold buried somewhere on his place?"

"With all that blather about discretion? Droning on about the druids' red gold and his Russell translations? Of course. I did a little research into his background, too. That family dates back to at least the late Middle Ages, and they've been in that estate of his the entire time. If at some point in the last six or seven hundred years a Highgrove hadn't buried something valuable on that land I'd be surprised. I'd also be surprised if there weren't a family legend about it, something that makes Highgrove think he's got the key to it now. Whether he really found it in the box or added it is another question. What have you got?"

"Oh: Couple of topo and satellite charts." John laid them out over the table. "I searched within a mile radius of the manor house, and in that area these three sectors more or less match up with the map for terrain features. There are three pairs of charts: each pair is one satellite and one topo view of each sector. I centered them all on the manor house, just to have a common reference point, and cropped them to make the scales match each other and the map as closely as I could. There's some guesswork involved, though. It's impossible to know the scale and orientation of the original map, but if you superimpose one on the other you can see that they match up pretty well."

Sherlock was doing just that: holding up to the light the map photo with each topo and satellite chart in turn. "This is excellent, John. Excellent. You are coming right along."

"Yeah, great. So, what next? We turn this over to Highgrove and that's it?"

"Hm. Well, technically we've done what he asked. He wanted the map translated and it is."

"But you think there's more to this than just him wanting the translation."

"I think there's really gold somewhere on that estate, and so does he, and I think he's willing to kill for it."

"Kill for it?" John mentally went over the meeting with Highgrove again. "The shepherd? You think he killed the shepherd? But if the red gold thing is true it's not even real gold. You said yourself it's part copper. Wouldn't that make it worth a lot less than pure gold? Besides, if the shepherd found it on Highgrove's property it belongs to Highgrove, period, and so would any gold the map leads him to. Why would he kill for that?"

"I don't know." Sherlock frowned, thinking. "It's not his until the Crown says it is, though. The 'individual non-coin' clause of the Treasure Act would prevent him automatically keeping any of those relics for himself."

"The what, now?"

"The 1996 Treasure Act," Sherlock said. "Any individual non-coin find that's at least 300 years old and at least ten percent gold or silver has to be reported within fourteen days of discovery to the coroner of the jurisdiction in which it's found. If the coroner says it meets the law's definition of treasure then Highgrove has to offer the item for sale to a museum. He can only keep it if the museum declines to buy it, although he'd be entitled to its market value in any case."

"He'd know that, wouldn't he?"

"Of course. It's more likely that he wants the find for its historical value more than its monetary value. The historical value is probably much greater to him as a collector, to say nothing of what an obsessive personality might make of it. You have no idea the value of minutiae to the obsessive personality, John," Sherlock added with no trace of irony.

"No," John said with considerable irony. "I know nothing about that."

Sherlock was staring off into the distance. "I need to see that map," he said.